


Is Forever Enough?

by ereshai



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Amnesia, Digital Art, Inspired by Art, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 09:51:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19060243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/pseuds/ereshai
Summary: "Eric crept cautiously toward the street. No one was in sight; whoever had been speaking was no longer there. He didn’t know whether to be glad of it or not. His head was pounding, he was in a strange place - who could say if the unknown speakers were friend or foe? He had no memory of how he had come to be here. He could barely remember his own name, his head hurt so monstrously. "





	Is Forever Enough?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [actualkon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualkon/gifts).



> Many thanks to foryouandbits and giraffeter for their awesome (and fast) beta services. This is a very different (and better) fic because of their input. Any remaining shortcomings are my own fault.  
> Thanks to actualkon for being so understanding of the RL issues that affected me and my writing.  
> [Check out the art that inspired this fic!](https://transzimmermann.tumblr.com/post/185307164618)

 

1

 

_“We’ll be together. That is all I care for.”_

~

His head was throbbing. Too much to drink last night? That didn’t seem right - he didn’t drink to excess anymore, not since… He couldn’t remember when. Or why. Or anything else, for that matter.

He opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of the sun. He didn’t recognize his surroundings. He was in a narrow alleyway. Muffled voices from the street beyond the buildings carried to his ears. The words were oddly accented. English, he thought. He didn’t speak English.

“Ho, Bertie! Just who I wanted to see.”

Or perhaps he did.

Two men paused at the opening of the alley.

“Afraid I can’t accompany you to White’s tonight, Bertie. M’sister’s come-out ball. Mother will ring a peal over my head if I don’t show m’face.”

“Just as well. My pockets are to let. Bought a sweet-goer at Tattersall’s yesterday. Say, what’s your sister’s marriage portion? Generous, I dare say.”

“You aren’t getting leg-shackled to my sister, nodcock, so don’t think it.”

“Thought never entered m’mind, ‘pon rep. D’you think Prinny will make an appearance?”

“The Prince Regent, at my sister’s come-out ball? You are a nodcock.”

Perhaps he did speak English, but these words made no sense.

“Zooks, here’s a queer customer. Some kind of play-actor, are you?”

One of the men was looking at him. The other turned, and they both stared at him

“Non, je-” He stopped. What could he say? Maybe he was a play-actor.

“Oh, French.” The men nodded knowingly. “Is that what they’re wearing on the Continent now?”

He looked down. He was dressed decently, in a doublet and hose, unlike the two men, who were wearing odd garments. Their doublets - if that’s what they could be called - were very plain and oddly fitted, they wore bunched cloth around their necks, and their hose hung loosely about their legs. He shrugged. The English were unfathomable.

“Is he dicked in the nob, d’you think?” one of them whispered.

“Hard to tell with the French,” the other answered. “What’s your name? Damme, how does that go? Common appley voo?”

He raised a brow at them and didn’t answer, not only because he didn’t actually know his name. Was that supposed to be French?

“He can’t stay here. The ragpickers will do him just for those togs.”

_Jack._

The name came to him, a fragment of a memory swimming up from the depths of his mind, the voice speaking it full of such love and longing that his heart actually stuttered in his chest.

“Jack,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I am Jack.”

“Come away, Mr. Jack. We’ll see you set to rights.”

Having no other options, Jack followed them.

Behind him, in a shadowed stairwell leading down into the lower recesses of one of the buildings, there came a small groan. None of them noticed.

~

Eric crept cautiously toward the street. No one was in sight; whoever had been speaking was no longer there. He didn’t know whether to be glad of it or not. His head was pounding, he was in a strange place - who could say if the unknown speakers were friend or foe? He had no memory of how he had come to be here. He could barely remember his own name, his head hurt so monstrously _._ Had he been struck? He ran his hand through his hair, but he found no bumps or tender places. Perhaps he should consult a doctor.

But first, a place of safety, if he could find one. A face sprang into his mind, a dark-haired man with sad blue eyes, a slight smile on his face. Eric didn’t know who it was, but he had a sudden need to be wherever that man was.

“What a fantastical notion,” he muttered. He didn’t know who that person could be, and no reason to think him safe. _And no reason to think him a villain_ , he reminded himself. It would be best to wait and see what he could learn, not moon over some handsome unknown who was probably a figment of his imagination.

Eric had hoped reaching the street would bring his memories back, but it didn’t, not quite. He discovered he was in London - was any other city as full of soot? - but it was familiar and strange at the same time. He sighed in frustration. How could he be so sure he was in London and still not know anything about himself?

The scrape of a footstep behind him made him turn. A disreputable looking person stood there, a cudgel half-hidden at the side of his leg. His skin was grimy, as were his clothes, and his leering smile marked him as ‘up to no good’ immediately to Eric’s mind. Eric took a step back, and the ruffian advanced. His eyes widening, Eric stepped back again.

“Poor lost gentleman,” the ruffian crooned, still leering. “Need help, do you?”

“What? No, my thanks. I am merely… resting.”

“Long night of gambling away your fortune? Found yourself in a spot of trouble now, have you?”

“No. I thank thee. Now, I must take my leave.” Eric inclined his head politely.

The ruffian took another step closer. “No, no, I insist. Can’t have one of the Quality wandering about unaccompanied in this part of London. Liable to get hurt, and then who gets the blame? Innocent gents like me, that’s who.”

“I’m sure-”

“So you just come along and I’ll see you safe home. A young gentleman like you, dressed in fine fabric like that? You’re sure to have rich parents who will shower me with gratitude.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Eric said sternly, but his voice wavered.

The ruffian reached for his arm.

Eric backed away and spun around, looking for an escape. Which way? Where would he find safety?

_I want to go home!_

A burst of bright colors swirled around him and he fainted.

~

2

 

_“‘Wither thou goest’ - it seems fitting, yes?”_

~

Jack stumbled. He’d been following the two young men and then smoke and screams filled the air.

“It’s spreading!”

“Form another line!”

“We need more buckets!”

Jack whirled, watching the people scurrying around him. Someone thrust a bucket of water into his hands. He stared down at it.

“Pass it on, lackwit,” a man next to him shouted, his voice slightly muffled by the cloth tied over his nose and mouth. Jack blindly held the bucket out and someone took it. He hurriedly tore a strip from his shirt and tied it over his own face. It didn’t help very much. “Here’s another. Move faster!”

This last was said not to Jack but to a young blond man running past them carrying a stack of buckets in his arms. Something about him caught Jack’s eye and he watched the other man disappear into the smoke.

“Here!” Another bucket.

Hours passed as Jack passed buckets of water along the human chain, which shifted as the fire spread. Jack saw the blond man pass them several times, moving up and down the line to retrieve buckets again and again.

“It’s no use. Get to safety!” someone shouted and the line of fire fighters broke. Jack had no idea where to go - every direction seemed to lead to yet another fire. He tried to follow the other retreating men, but the smoke was too thick and the narrow streets too confusing.

Jack found himself in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by soot-covered houses. They weren’t burning, but it was only a matter of time - he could hear the crackle of flames.

He was seized by a desperate need to escape and the world whirled around him in a riot of color and-

~

3

 

_“I could not bear to lose thee.”_

~

Eric took a deep breath of cool, smoke-free air and coughed at the smoke still caught in his lungs. He didn’t understand how he had gone from running from a blazing inferno one moment to stumbling down an almost deserted _not-on-fire_ street the next, but he didn’t question the miracle as he took another deep breath. Already his aching lungs were easing.

“Here’s a likely one, boys,” a loud voice said from behind him.

Eric froze in place. He turned his head slowly, reluctant to see what disaster was about to befall him. But no, it was better to look his fate squarely in the eye. How else could he spit in it as it inevitably did him wrong?

His fate seemed to be a group of large men who had made an attempt at looking respectable. They surrounded him in a loose circle, blocking any chance of escape.

“He hardly looks like a sailing man, Mr. Chester,” one of them said.

“Look at his clothes,” Mr. Chester replied. “Sailors wear odd clothing, everyone knows that. Comes of traveling to foreign ports.”

“He’s all sooty. Would a sailor be all sooty?” asked another.

“Sailors are filthy, everyone knows that. They don’t bathe above once or twice a year,” Mr. Chester said pompously.

“What, even surrounded by all that water?”

“Sailors can’t swim, everyone knows that. They avoid going in the water at all costs, lest they drown and die. This, unfortunately, extends to baths, because they’re too stupid to realize the water isn’t very deep. Thus their generally disgusting condition.” Mr. Chester indicated Eric.

“I am no sailor,” Eric said, his voice still smoke-rough.

“Oho, we’ve heard that one before, haven’t we, boys?” Mr. Chester turned to his followers. “Mark his voice, rough from shouting and all the salt-air he breathes? Sailors-”

“I am no sailor,” Eric repeated, more loudly.

“Any eligible man of seafaring habits may be impressed into service for the Royal Navy, by command of King George the Third. It says so right here.” Mr. Chester brandished a rolled up piece of paper.

“Seafaring habits? Me?” Eric reached for the scroll, but Mr. Chester held it out of reach.

“Don’t play the idiot, boy, we’ve already rumbled you. I’ve laid out my evidence thoroughly. Come along quietly or you’ll wish you had.”

“Are you sure he’s not a landsman, Mr. Chester? Captains don’t think much of landsmen. We’d need two of him for the Navy to get any use out of him.”

“And what if he is a landsman? Does he look like someone’s apprentice to you lot?” The group was quiet as they contemplated Eric’s dirty face and his unkempt clothing. “Or, God love us, a _gentleman_?” They all laughed. “No one will care, as long as they get enough men to crew a ship. And it saves the King his shilling.” Mr. Chester chuckled.

“Right you are, Mr. Chester,” one of them said, and rough hands grabbed Eric by his upper arms. “To the wagon with you.” Two men dragged him down the street and the rest swaggered along behind them.

“Unhand me!” Eric kicked at the men holding him and tried to pull away, but they lifted him effortlessly off his feet and carried him suspended between them, ignoring his flailing limbs. “Curs! Hedge-born knaves! Clod-brained pillocks!”

“He talks like he’s in a bleedin’ play,” one of the men muttered. They stopped at an enclosed wagon made of stout wood. There was a door on the back, locked with a large padlock. “Got another one!”

The driver jumped down from his seat at the front of the wagon and hurried to the back, holding a large metal ring with a key on it. He hurriedly unlocked the padlock and held the door open. “That’s a sailor?” he asked, looking Eric up and down.

“Undoubtedly,” Mr. Chester said. “Toss him in, we have to find at least three more before nightfall.”

“Thou-” Eric began, but the men holding him unceremoniously tossed him through the open door and it slammed shut behind him. “Rump-faced miscreant,” he mumbled as he sat up.

A muffled noise drew his attention. It wasn’t completely dark inside the wagon - weak light filtered through narrow slits set high on the walls on either side - and Eric could see someone was sitting nearby on a low bench.

“Good day,” he said cautiously. “Have you been mistaken as a sailor as well?”

“Oui,” the man replied. “I mean, yes. They insist I have the look of a sailor, and so I am here.”

“It is the same with me. But you’re French. Can they take you into service on an English ship?”

The man shrugged. “I think they do not care. Frenchmen are not well regarded here, it seems.” He leaned forward a little, and a ray of light showed bruising on his face.

“Oh.” Eric got up and sat on the bench across from the other man. “What will happen now?”

“I do not know. But I do not wish to be a sailor, so I shall set my mind on escape, if it is possible.”

“A brilliant idea. If you would permit it, I might accompany you?”

The man regarded him thoughtfully and Eric had the strange idea that he knew that look. Had they met before? Eric still had no memory of his life before this strange day, but surely the other man would have greeted him if they knew each other.

Finally the other man spoke. “The life of a sailor must be hard, if they pluck unsuspecting men from the street for it. One man might escape more easily than two, but I vow I will not abandon you to such a life.”

Tears sprang to Eric’s eyes and he blinked them away. “I thank you, good sir. But it seems my manners have deserted me. You have pledged your word to a man hasn’t given you the courtesy of his name. I am Eric, and on my life I will not abandon you either.” He held out his hand.

The other man took it. “Thank you, Eric. I am called Jack.”

“Well met, Jack. Now, may luck be with us and this cursed day behind us..”

 

 

Luck was not with them. Their half-formed plan to burst through the door when it was next opened was thwarted by the driver. It was the most obvious plan, and their captors knew well enough how to keep their captives in line. Two more men were imprisoned with them. They seemed resigned to their fate.

“There’s nothing for it,” one of them said when Eric mentioned the possibility of escape. “The sea is in my blood. It’s not a bad life, but I do wish the press gang hadn’t scooped me up. I had a berth on a merchant ship, but it’s no use to me if I’m shot trying to get back to it.”

“If it’s escape you’re after, don’t sign on as volunteers when they ask,” the other said. “An impressed man who deserts is taken back to his ship. A volunteer who deserts is hanged.”

There were a few opportunities to try again, if one of them was prepared to leave without the other, which they were not. And so they went to sea.

 

 

A sailor’s life was hard and tedious, often at the same time. Eric’s body ached all the time and his hands bore permanent blisters. He stayed near Jack whenever he could, and far from those sailors who looked at him with a speculative gleam in their eyes. Eric was no fool; he knew what went on in the ship’s secluded places at night and he also knew not every participant was willing. It could happen to him - and would, if not for Jack. Jack played the part of possessive protector, glaring at the bolder sailors and sitting slightly closer to Eric than was acceptable at meals. Most importantly, he made sure they were seen disappearing into secluded places at night, though they spent their time planning their eventual escape. There was a peculiar code of honor among the men belowdecks - theft was somehow worse than taking forceful advantage of another. Eric was perceived to be Jack’s and no one would try to take what was his. It did Eric’s pride and dignity no little damage to be counted as someone’s property, but he suspected he would recover.

From his very first night on board the ship, Eric started having the same dream over and over again. He was in a large room, standing at a window and looking out at the buildings of some unknown city. The sun was warm on his face. Someone was in the room with him, but he couldn’t turn his head to see who it was. Instead of making him uneasy, he was filled with a sense of peace. This was the person he wanted to be with.

As the days passed, Eric learned more than the day-to-day tedium involved in operating a ship of the Royal Navy. They were sailing to the New World. Tensions were high between Britain and the Colonies they had established there; there were rumors that war was imminent. Eric hadn’t known the New World had been colonized.

The dream began to change slightly. As he stood at the window, the other person would come to stand near him. Eric still couldn’t turn his head, but he would smile as the man smoothed the fabric of his doublet over his shoulder or pushed a lock of hair behind his ear. “Tres beau, mon amour,” he would whisper in a familiar voice, and Eric would wake up, aching with loss. Was he remembering some lost love, or was this merely some fanciful wish given life? Whatever his forgotten life had been, whoever he had known and loved, there was only one person he wanted in that dream room with him now.

One night, almost two months into their journey, Jack practically pulled him to their accustomed spot, ignoring the knowing chuckles of their shipmates.

“We have a chance to escape,” Jack hissed as soon as they were alone.

“What?”

“Land has been sighted. When the ship is close enough, before we dock in Boston, we must leave. Swim to shore.”

Eric frowned. “Swim to shore? Surely-”

“The guard is doubled when the ship is docked. You know they don’t trust us.”

Jack was right. They hadn’t accepted the Impressment Service’s offer to let them sign on as volunteers before they had been put on board. It hardly mattered when they were on the open sea, but any time the ship made port, they were treated little better than prisoners.

“No one will expect this,” Jack insisted.

Eric took a deep breath and nodded. “When will we do it?”

“The first mate said it is three or four days until we reach Boston. I have middle watch the next two nights. If we are not close enough to shore tomorrow night, it will be the next.”

“That isn’t much time to gather what we need.”  
Jack sighed. “There may not be another chance.”

“Then we’ll take it.”

 

 

Eric held his breath as the sailor on morning watch strolled past his hiding spot. There were precious few places to hide on the deck of a ship, and if the sailor turned his head at the right moment, Eric would be discovered. His intent to desert could not be any more obvious. This close to landfall, his punishment would be harsh, to deter any other would-be deserters.

The man moved on and Eric relaxed his grip on his oilcloth bag of provisions. This had been the part of the plan that was most likely to fail. Now that it was past, he didn’t have much longer to wait.

“Eric,” came a whisper, and he crept out of his hiding place.

Jack was waiting for him in the shadows, holding his own bag of provisions. During his watch he had been able to lower a rope ladder over the side of the ship without being observed. All they had to do once they reached the water was swim for shore and not drown in the attempt. Unlike most sailors, both Eric and Jack could swim, though they hadn’t revealed that information to anyone else. With luck, their absence wouldn’t be noticed until dawn and since none of the ship’s-boats would be missing, they could even be assumed dead.

Quickly and quietly, they went to the rope ladder. Jack helped Eric tie his oilskin bag to his back, and Eric returned the favor. Then Jack swung his leg over the rail and began to climb down. Eric followed as quickly as he could, his knuckles white where he gripped the rope. The ladder swayed with every movement; this high up, falling to the water would surely injure them...or worse.

Jack was almost halfway down the ladder when a voice called out, “Ho! You there, stop!”

Eric looked up; the sailor on watch stared down at him. “Captain! Deserters!”

“Keep going,” Jack said below him. The ladder jerked as he started moving again.

Eric took a deep breath and forced his fingers to open. He hadn’t gotten very far when he heard another shout from the top of the rail.

“Belay that, or I’ll shoot you like the dog you are!” It was the captain. “Lower the jolly boat!”

Eric shuddered and continued to climb down. A line of fire licked along his upper arm and he heard the sharp report of a gunshot. His vision grayed out and he lost his grip. He felt himself begin to fall.

_Jack!_

With the last of his strength, he pushed off of the side of boat, determined not to take Jack down with him. He hoped for one last look at Jack before he hit the water, but all he could see was a dizzying whirl of stars and sails and then the colors took him.

~

4

 

_“I’m ready.”_

~

Jack stood on an empty dock, wondering how he had come to be there. The last time the magic had saved him - plucking him from the fire in London - it hadn’t moved him so far. He was grateful that whatever force was at work seemed to care about his safety and had left him here instead of floating alone in the ocean.

 _Eric_.

A wave of grief rolled through him. He hadn’t known Eric very long, just those months they had spent at sea, but from the moment they’d met, Jack had felt an instant connection to him. Something about his voice… Jack could almost hear him whispering sweet words of love and devotion. They had never exchanged such words, of course, but Jack would occasionally allow himself to dream. Life on board that ship had been hard, but Jack had still prayed that he wouldn’t be taken away, not when Eric needed him. Not when he needed Eric.

And now he was alone.

Jack shook off his melancholy and left the dock. He would allow himself to think of it later. No one paid him any mind as he made his way into the city proper. He needed to find a place to sit and think about what to do next. He knew where he was - Boston, according to the signs on various merchants’ shops - but that still left the question of where he would stay and how he would eat. He would have to find work-

“Jack?”

The hesitant voice stopped him dead. It couldn’t be.

“Jack? Is it really you?”

Jack turned in disbelief. It _was_ Eric. He was still wearing the same clothes, a tear in the sleeve. Through it, Jack could see the pink skin of a fresh scar. He was even carrying an oilcloth bag. How- “Eric?”

“Jack, it is you.” Eric looked pale, on the verge of collapse. Jack took him by the shoulder and led him to a secluded spot between two buildings.

“I don’t understand,” Eric mumbled. “Did the magic save you too?”

That took Jack a moment to comprehend. “Too? You… Has this happened to you before?”

Eric nodded hesitantly. “Before I was caught by the press gang, I- London was burning, and then it wasn’t.”

Jack sagged against the wooden wall of the building behind him. “I was there, too. It happened once before the fire, as well.”

“Yes. And I have no memories of my life before that.”

“It is the same for me.”

Eric stared at him. “Have we been blessed or cursed?”

Jack had no answer. He reached out and took Eric’s hand in his own.

“What do we do now?”

“I don’t know, but we will do it together. Look, a small park. We’ll sit and think, yes?”

Eric, still pale, nodded. Jack tugged him forward and they walked slowly along the street.

“Your wound, how is it?” Jack looked again at the scar on Eric’s arm.

“Tender, but healed. I don’t understand how that can be. It happened less than an hour ago.” He shuddered at the memory.

Jack tightened his grip on Eric’s hand. The pain of losing Eric was still fresh and even the impossible joy of finding him alive almost immediately couldn’t erase it completely.

“California becomes the thirty-first state! Read all about it,” a boy shouted from the corner. He was holding a stack of folded papers in one arm and waving one in the air. A passing man handed him a coin and took the paper from him.

Jack shared a confused look with Eric. “Thirty-first state? I thought there were only thirteen colonies.”

Eric unbuttoned his pocket and took out a few coins. “Do you think this will be enough to buy one of the boy’s papers?”

“I’ll ask him.” Jack tried to pull away, but Eric held tight to his hand.

“I won’t risk being parted from you,” Eric declared, color finally coming back to his face. Jack smiled.

The boy was watching them with a suspicious look on his face. “Where’re you from? London or something?”

“Something,” Jack agreed. “How much?”

“Two cents, and I want to see your money first.”

Eric held out a 2-pence piece. The boy took it and bit it. “Good enough for London, good enough for me, I reckon,” he announced. He handed them a paper.

“Thank you,” Eric said and they continued down the street.

“What day is it?” Jack wondered. “We’ve been so long at sea, I’ve lost track.”

Eric looked at the date and stopped walking.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Jack,” Eric said faintly. “What year is it?”

“1774. That’s what it said on that paper the Impressment Service person wanted me to sign.”

“It’s not 1774, Jack.” Eric’s voice was trembling.

Jack took the paper from him and checked the date. “September 9… 1850?”

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a longer fic, and it will be.
> 
> Title from Lullaby by Dixie Chicks


End file.
